


What Are You So Scared Of?

by CalibriBold



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Borussia Dortmund, Gay, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 11:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9894911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalibriBold/pseuds/CalibriBold
Summary: ~ 'His eyes are hazel, and so bright. And suddenly it’s hard for Marco to breathe.' ~When Marco first meets Mario, his life is changed all through one small note.





	

_~FC Meineid is the nickname given to Schalke by Dortmund fans, apparently~_

“This is bullshit,” Marco muttered, “Fucking bullshit.”

“We lost. We lost to fucking to FC Meineid! We should’ve beaten them Auba, I had so many fucking chances,” Marco groaned. His hair stuck to his damp forehead, and he brushed it away from his eyes; its usual, bright blonde now dirty and dull.

'Typical, a fucking 90th minute goal' Auba replied, his voice thick with frustration. Auba places a hand on his shoulder and grins slightly, “At least smile for the fans, and try to look happy.” They trailed behind the rest of the team, slowly making their way towards the tunnel. Glancing up, he saw the Westfalenstadion was already half empty, various fans shaking their heads in disappointment. Losing matches never got easier. They had stayed resilient for a solid 60 minutes. A couple minutes later, Marco had a clear cut chance. He ran, as fast as he could picking up the pass and slotting it away. It was a great shot, swerving around the keeper, and way out of reach. But only seconds later, a goal kick was given. The goal was disallowed for offside, much to Macro’s dismay.

Then they scored. It was a good goal, but it was a goal nevertheless. It still hurt all the same.

And then they scored again.

“I can’t face them now, they look angry. This is fucking bullshit! I should’ve been onside, that’s one of the most basic rules in this shitty match. FC Meineid Auba! How did we lose 2-0, at home?” Marco is red in the face, anger evident in his actions, as he waves his hands around in frustration. They’re getting closer to the supporters, a few Dortmund faithful’s are gathered around the tunnel entrance. He lifts his hands in the air, and claps the fans – it’s the least he could do.

He looks up, consoling the crowd, reluctant address the disappointed individuals. Auba drags him over towards the supporters to the left of the substitute’s bench. He signs shirts, poses for photos, trying his best to revitalise his hairstyle. And then he apologises. For the mistakes, and missed chances. There’s a chorus of reassurance, and he’s just about to turn back towards the tunnel, when a hand grabs his shoulder. It’s firm and strong, spinning him back around in one swift movement. A man stands alone. His body is engulfed in a large, black hooded sweatshirt, hood up over what appears to be smooth, mousy locks. He has a yellow Dortmund scarf wrapped around his neck, his nose is crinkled and small traces of dimples mark his face, like he’s smiling. What catches his attention though, are the man’s eyes; golden, like pools of molten gold. They’re shining, wrinkling at the corners. His eyes are hazel, and so bright. And suddenly it’s hard for Marco to breathe. There’s a small bit of paper being thrust at him, with Marco’s name written on it in bold italics. The man winks, still smiling. Auba has already left, and as he looks back for him, he stuffs the bit of paper into his sweatband. He turns back around, and the man is gone, already disappearing down the stadium stairs.

“MARCO YOU COMING?”

Marco can’t help but blush slightly. He smiles at a couple of the fans left, before making his way towards the tunnel, still grinning faintly. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face, a sweet contrast to five minutes ago. Walking off the pitch, he makes his way down the yellow and black tunnel, colours bright and bold, into the changing rooms. His daze is shaken off when he realises the whole team are staring at him.

Mats gives him an odd look, and Erik smiles softly before turning back to Julian and saying something in a hushed tone. Marco shakes it off and returns to his locker. He strips down, deciding against showering – that can wait till he gets home. Tuchel comes in at some point, giving some lecture about how they should’ve won, saying there were positives nevertheless, and then dismissing the team. Marco stands there, waiting for the rest of the team to go. He feels tired, drained, and fed up; but he still feels the need to apologise for his performance. There’s someone standing behind him, he can sense it. He spins around, to see Mats staring at him.

He stutters slightly, Mats intense stare making him anxious. His mouth is dry as he forces out his words, “I-I’m sorry. I was shocking, really bad. Complete scheiße, I should’ve been more aware, we could- no should’ve won,” he moans, sighing as Mats gave him weak smile.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, we all make mistakes. We made many this match, it wasn’t just you, it was everyone,” he pauses, noticing the little slip of paper slipping out from underneath Marco’s sweatband. Gently lifting his hand, he gestures towards the piece of paper, “What’s that?”

Blushing, Marco shakes his head, “It’s just a reminder to call a friend,” he pauses, “Thank you though, Mats. I appreciate it.” And with that, Mats nods in acknowledgement, already turning around and picking up his bag. “See you later Marcinho,” he grinned, leaving the room. Marco was the last one left, standing by his locker shirtless. He tugged a grey t-shirt over his head, and slipped off his wristband. The piece of paper fell to the floor, and Marco ducked down to open it.

_023176993221 – Call me, you’re cute. M_

Marco frowned, standing back up again. “M?” he said. Must be his name or something. He pulled out his phone, tapping in the number and labelling it ‘M’. Grabbing his bag, he fumbled around in the bottom for his car keys, eventually finding them underneath his training shirt and brush. He switched off the light as he made his way out, walking down endless corridors of yellow and black. And all the while, his thoughts were clouded by this man in the black sweatshirt, with dimples and a scarf. He was bold, his actions purposeful, and he had a sunny temperament, from what Marco could tell.

His feelings were muddled, by the man with the incredibly golden caramel eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter one out of however many we can continue this for.  
> We hope you like it so far, we'll update as soon as we can
> 
> enjoy


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